|The kids at Longwood Gardens|
I raise my children: we laugh, we eat, we walk, we read. We practice multiplication facts, Spanish, and spelling words. I sign planners and tests. I wash their clothes and their dishes, prepare their meals. And each day I do it all again, hoping they end up happy adults, able to support themselves, and making confident choices that make sense for them. Good people with strong minds and soaring hearts that make their worlds better places to be, bring joy to their loved ones and bring out the best in themselves and those around them. I work at this labor of love each day and each night, with a tenacity to rival the wealthiest workaholic, but is it enough? If the dishes are scattered around the kitchen, have I failed? When the cat is curled up in the pile of clean laundry still not folded (again), my work is not done. If the child is rude, unhappy, or hungry, my job is not done.
With writing, at some point, the piece is done. It may not be good, it may not leave my desk, but it will be finished. Clarity, purpose, drive, goals, and proof – it will be written down. The words will live so that I can touch them, see them, hear them, relive them again and know that I have accomplished something real, something meaningful, even if only to me. And that is enough.
|The last hibiscus bloom of the season.|
|Fall foliage covered in snow. |
Photo credit to my husband, David.